We won

Sir? Sir!” Plete’s voice, “Please, sir, wake up! Please!”

Even half-asleep, Warrian could tell that the boy sounded panicked. All but weeping.

“Wake up, sir! Please, get up! We are under attack.” Plete was shaking him now.

Go, said another voice, this one steady and calm, a remnant of the quickly disintegrating dream, Stay on the left side of the lake. We’ll push through.

The voice cut off, a memory that shimmered, whirled, and vanished, as Plete’s words finally sank in. Warrian bolted upright.

“How many?” He was already moving, pulling on his boots and strapping on Telirium’s scabbard, “I didn’t hear the alarm.”

“Three thousand. At least a third of them Hazed. I tried to wake you up, sir, but you seemed…”

Completely out of it. Again. 

In the first days of the war with the Hazed, Warrian had been waking up screaming, reeling, hating his unconscious mind for reenacting the day’s battles with terrifyingly realistic precision. He’d spent days wading in a tired stupor, a result of one too many tossing sweat-soaked nights. Now, a year into the war, his squire had to shake him breathless before Warrian cracked an eye. He wasn’t sure what he thought of that particular adaptation.

“Stay here,” Warrian snapped and stormed past Plete to the tent entrance, hand already braced on Telirium’s hilt. The infamous sword spotted no ornamentation, no jewels or steaks of precious metal to grant it grandeur. Just sleek frostbite-cold steel that flickered in and out of existence. 

When Warrian stepped outside, he wished he could wink out too.

The entire world was coated in black. Black burned trees. Black burned grass. Black predawn sky and its reflection in the glassy surface of the distant lake. Three thousand black-uniformed troops marching at the remains of Warrian’s army.

“General! Should I call the retreat?” Daan, Warrian’s grey-haired lieutenant, was rushing toward him through the stirring camp, soldiers assuming their positions with grim habit-forget efficiency. 

“No.”

Daan skidded to a stop, “Sir? There are at least a thousand Hazed down there,” he pointed at the undulating sea of black to the North, “Not even Telirium can be everywhere at once. You can’t defeat them all.”

Daan was right, of course. Warrian’s men would stand against any human army and come out victorious, but the Hazed were creatures that lived between worlds, unfocused flickering silhouettes of darkness that could touch this reality if and only if they wished. No ordinary weapon could make contact with them. No trap could hold them. And Warrian, who held the only sword in the world that could hurt the Hazed, simply couldn’t fight a thousand opponents at once.

They should retreat. They should run. And yet, Warrian heard himself say, “Get everyone to the left bank of the lake.” 

The order was out of his mouth before Warrian could think it through, but he knew it to be the right one.

Daan saw it only a second later, his face suddenly going white, “You are going to summon her, aren’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“But…”

“She is bound by the Contract. Bound to the Telirium. She will obey.”

Daan’s eyes slid to the unadorned flickering sword on Warrian’s hip, and the grizzled general shuddered. 

“She is one of them, sir. Worse than one of them.”

“I hope so. There’ll be a thousand of them against one of her.”

Daan swallowed and made a warding gesture against evil, but soon his deep voice was ringing out above the camp's clamor, snapping orders in brisk confident tones. Daan might be superstitious, but a year under Warrian’s command had taught him to trust his general’s plans. Those who hadn’t died in the first few weeks.

Warrian left his lieutenant to ready the troops and returned to his tent. Plete was crouching in the corner, stroking the laid-back ears of a stray dog Warrian had found a couple of days ago. The beast was a sorry little thing, scrawny and one-eyed, nothing like the trained war hound that a general was expected to keep, but Plete seemed to have taken a liking to the beast and Warrian couldn’t refuse the orphan such a small indulgence. Besides, his general’s tent had nothing if not space.

Both dog and child looked up when Warrian pushed past the tent flaps.

“Plete, I need you to get the Hraith,” Warrian said without preamble.

“Me?!” Undiluted terror flooded the boy’s eyes.

“Yes. Now. She won’t hurt you.”

Warrian wanted to say more, to comfort the boy or even go himself, but there was no time. He needed to look over the maps, discuss the plan with his aides, and do a thousand other things before that tide of black crashed against them.

Plete must have seen the urgency in Warrian’s face, because he nodded, patted Stan’s ears one last time, and darted out of the tent. He knew where the Hraith stayed.

 Everyone knew where the Hraith stayed.

The next five minutes were a blur of rushed conversations, distant yells and metallic clatter. Eyes on the maps, focus on the upcoming battle, Warrian kept a part of his mind fixed on those hectic familiar sounds. Experience had taught him that quiet would be the first and only herald of the Hraith’s arrival. The creature walked silently, stone and flesh but clouds of mist to her, and people tended to stop moving, talking, breathing when she passed. Warrian had once seen a thunderstorm fizzle out when the Hraize took a step outside. 

Alert or not, Warrian had only a heartbeat before a wave of roaring quiet rolled down one side of the camp and gave way to a lean female silhouette that flickered and misted around the edges. 

Just like Telirium did. Just like the Hazed did. 

“You called.” 

The Hraith stopped before Warrian, impossibly blue eyes studying the map, impossibly dark hair shifting in the wind no one else could feel. There was no recognition, no annoyance, not even a hint of curiosity on her pale face. There was nothing at all, except for the usual unnatural stillness.

It took even Warrian a moment to find his voice. “I call upon your strength tonight, Hraith. Will you honor your Contract?”

The Hraith turned to watch the approaching hoard of the Hazed, her left hand passing through the table without meeting any resistance. It was absurd to remind himself of such things, but Warrian had to make a conscious effort to inhale.

The Hraith said, “The Contact binds two. If I fight for you today, do you swear to release me at the end of the war?”

The Hraith always demanded something in return. A new weapon. A tent further away from the camp. This was the first time she had asked for freedom. 

What would the creature do if he unbound her from Telirium and let her slink away to the closest shadow? Would she be a threat? Would she avenge her year of servitude?

One glance at the approaching enemy told Warrian those questions didn’t matter. He afford to refuse. With no time left to retreat, it was either grant his wish or die on the spot. 

“When the war is over, I will let you go,” Warrian promised and the Hraith bowed her head. Then she flickered out. 

Everyone around Warrian took a collective breath.

“I can’t believe she was human once,” Plete whispered, staring at the space where the Hraith’s silhouette had been sketched a second ago.

“She wasn’t,” Daan wiped his brow with a sleeve of his uniform, “Nothing can do that to a human expecting the Mystics, and no one has seen those in centuries.”

“But she has color to her, unlike the Hazed.”

“Aye, but like them, she’s got no heart.”

Warrian listened with half an ear. To him, the Hraith was no more and no less than what Telirium was. A unique weapon that could kill the Hazed. What did it matter how the weapon had been forged?

“Alright, everyone, assume your positions and wait for my command. Plete, stay here in the camp.”

“But—”

“No. You are still too young to come with me.” Warrian squeezed the boy’s shoulder, “Look after Stan for me.” With that, he joined his men on the front line.

The battle began in one hour. 

It ended in eight.

Establishing a semblance of order after the chaos took nine more. 

By the time Warrian stumbled into his tent in the evening, the world was black again — this time from the acrid smoke of the pyres.

“We… won?” Plete asked, trying and failing not to flinch at the sight of dust and blood that caked every inch of Warrian’s uniform.  

“Yes,” Warrian barely recognized his voice. A hoarse tired rasp, “Thanks to you.”

“Me?!”

“You brought the Hraith. She’d slaughtered half of the Hazed before I even unsheathed Telirium.”

“And… the casualties?”

“With the Hraith’s help and with the lake to cover our flank, we did better than we had any right to. I will walk you through the battle tomorrow,” he paused, “You’ve been alright?”

“Stan and I’ve been here the entire time. I… taught him to sit,” the words were bashful as if Plete wasn't sure it was appropriate to talk about normal things this soon after the battle.

“Good. Will you show me tomorrow?” Warrian asked, as he shrugged off his bloodied clothes, washed the worst of the gore off his skin, and sank onto the bed. He would eat and properly bathe in the morning. Now he just needed rest.

“Sure.”

It was the last thing Warrian heard before sleep swallowed him whole.

*****

Teliirum rose and fell, drawing arcs of black droplets across the grey sky. Swing. Block. Swing. Another arc of black blood. Another shriek of pain. Block. Swing. Keep going.

Warrian was on the battlefield again, the lake to his right, plowing through the rows of darkness before him.

Behind him, his men were losing. Even as he fought, he heard his soldiers curse, moan, and die in agony, their screams a consistent echo to the steady woosh, woosh, woosh of Telirium in his hands. The icy steel of the sword had already burned through his calluses and the blood trickled down the unadorned hilt in narrow twisting rivulets.

Warrian ignored the pain. He ignored the leaden heaviness in his sword arm. But he couldn't ignore the screams. He couldn’t ignore the other arcs of blood. 

The red ones.

He needed to get everyone out of here. They needed to retreat. They needed—

The thought cut off as the next arc of blood flashed across the sky, this one blooming right where Daan’s hand had just been. 

Warrian screamed a warning. Too late. Another scarlet burst — and Daan had no head. Uselessly, helplessly, Warrian rushed towards the body, knowing all too well that there was nothing he could do. Daan was dead. He was—

“Shhh,” a familiar voice whispered above him, “It’s over now, Warrian. Look at me.”

Warrian’s eyes flew open to find the bright blue gaze of the Hrairth only a few inches away. He tried to push away but froze at a sharp sudden realization. There was… concern in Hraith’s eyes. Genuine, raw, deep.

It hit him then.

An avalanche of memories, one more vivid than the other, tumbling, falling over each other as they fought for his attention. A year’s worth of meetings. A year’s worth of nights. For a moment, Warrian was drowning in his own recollections, a moment of disconnect so powerful he couldn't have told up from down.

It took his mind long minutes to color in all the blank spaces, but eventually, Warrian opened his eyes again, smiled, and said, “You saved the day tonight, Lidia.”

Lidia smiled back, “Don’t I always?”

“No, usually you’re just saving me.”

His head still spinning, Warrian propped himself up and glanced around. He was lying on a patch of green grass, Lidia kneeling beside him. As always, the circle of green, along with the column of fresh summer air, only spanned a few feet around them — the rest was the familiar mud of the battlefield, where figures of Warrian’s nightmare were still fighting for their lives. Lidia couldn’t prevent the Hazed from sending Warrian these visions, but she could temporarily isolate him from them.

“We’ve still lost at least a fifth of our forces today,” Lidia said, following his gaze to the raging battle beyond, “And Daan… I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Warrian said, pulling Lidia closer, wrapping his arms around her, and resting his chin on top of her head. Here, in the world of dreams, she was perfectly, delightfully solid, “But we have done the best we could. Both of us.” 

There was a bit of silence.

“Did you have to send Plete to fetch me? The poor boy looked terrified!”

“He’s fine. And before you ask, that stray dog you’ve asked me to pick up is now sleeping in my bed and eating my dinner.”

Lidia laughed and then bit her lip.

Warrian looked down at her, “Oh-oh.”

“What?”

“You want me to rescue someone else.”

“No…”

“If only people knew what a terrible liar the Hraith is.”

Lidia poked his side.

“Who is it?”

She cleared her throat, “Well… there is this old man, Mansul, and he has just been paralyzed, and—”

“I’ll find him. He won’t be left behind, I promise.”

“Thank you.”

Warrian pressed a kiss to her hair, “It’s the least I can do.”

It really was. Mystics gave only as much as they took. A sword that could kill the Hazed, had cost Warrian his grounding in reality. A small part of him now lived between worlds too and when his consciousness was not there to hold him steady, the Hazed could touch his mind, fill it with terror, make it relive the worst moments of the day. Had it not been for Lidia, Warrian would have gone mad a year ago. 

But Lidia didn’t ask for a weapon – she asked to become a weapon. A larger boon. A steeper price.

A girl with a heart that ached for every suffering soul became a threat to anyone who felt a shred of sympathy for her. A friend, a family member, or even a passerby who happened to think warmly of Lidia would drop dead before they took another breath. 

A price steep enough to be a curse.

After burying everyone she’d known, Lidia had to distance herself from people. She had to make herself seem a monster to avoid becoming one. Even Warrian had to hate her when awake lest he died before he led his army to victory.

“What counts as the end of the war?” Warrian asked, remembering her request earlier that day.

Lidia tensed in his arms, “According to the Contract, death of all Hazed.”

“Then we need to find a way to keep a few alive.”

“No.”

“Lidia...”

“No.”

She looked up at him, serious, “Too dangerous. And even if you somehow convince me, the waking Warrian would never agree. He won’t mind releasing the Hraith.”

“I remember the plans we make together when I wake up. Make me remember this too.”

“I can’t. A battle strategy makes sense when you think about it. Leaving Hazed alive… You will never follow such a hunch.”

Warrian opened his mouth to say more, to object, but Lidia placed a hand on his cheek, “You know I am right, Warrian.”

He did. It just didn’t make it any easier.

“Now,” Lidia said, “We can grieve, suffer, and hurt when we are awake. Here, together, let’s just… live, Warrian,” she kissed him, “Please?”

Still frowning, Warrian made himself nod and breathe in the fresh summer air. Pull Lidia closer. Live. He could do that. Here. Now. For her.

He pushed Lidia onto the grass, lying back himself and tucking her firmly against his side. There was a small patch of blue directly above them, the color of Lidia’s eyes. Warrian focused on it, willing himself to ignore his peripheral vision.

He smiled, remembering something, “Did I tell you that Plete taught Stan to sit?”

*****

The war had lasted three more long brutal months. Hraith had answered Warrian’s call five more times, and each time she reminded him of his promise to release her at the end of the war.

Now, an hour after the last of the Hazed fell under Telirium’s blade, the creature stood before Warrian, cold blue eyes watching him expectantly.

“Kill you?” Warrian repeated, “You want me to kill you?!”

“It’s the only way to set me free.”

Mansul, an old paraplegic cook Warrian hired to prepare his meals, remembered to breathe long enough to gasp from where he sat by the fire. Warrian only shrugged. He had promised to let her go. This was not what he had imagined the oath to mean, but every weapon had to be discarded eventually.

“Fine,” he said, “When?”

“Now.”

The Hraith kneeled where she stood, gathering hair to one side to reveal her slender neck.

“You are sure?”

“Yes.” A perfectly dispassionate answer.

Warrian glanced around to make sure Plete wasn’t around to see this and then lifted Telirium high above his head.

“Wait!” The Hraith looked up, “Don’t burn my body. Burry it under a patch of summer grass.”

Warrian nodded slowly, “I can do that. Anything else?”

“No.”

That was it. Telirium flew up and plummeted down in one smooth motion. Just another arc of blood across the sky. Just another body. 

Dead, the Hraize did not flicker. Warrian buried her under the closest shrub.

*****

The next morning Plete woke up to find his general already up, sitting with head in his hands.

“Good mo—” the boy cut off as Warrian looked up, “What’s wrong?”

Tears were streaking down the general’s face, dripping on his clasped hands. Stan was licking the tears off, but they seemed to drop faster than the dog could manage.

“Nothing,” Warrian said numbly, “ We won.”